


Kindling

by sirius



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula 2 RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: Milky Way* ship: origin story.*Milky Way because G(eorge) + Alex = Galaxy. Milky way is a galaxy, and Lando loves milk.
Relationships: Alexander Albon & Lando Norris & George Russell, Alexander Albon/Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Kindling

**Summer 2018**

“It's not OK,” Alex says. “I'm 22! I'm in the prime of my life! I'm a sexy fucker. _You're_ a sexy fucker. We're having sexy fucker sex. Why is my dick not working? _Why_?”

“It's alright,” George says. “It happens. Even to serious alpha males, like me.”

“I hate myself,” Alex says.

“Don't,” George says. He leans over, to turn off the light. Kisses his shoulder. “It's fine. I'll wake up tomorrow with it poking me in the arse cheek, like always. Have faith.”

“Ugh,” Alex says.

“Go to sleep.”

Alex does not. Even with George's arms wrapped around him from behind, and his soft snoring on his shoulder where George has crammed his face down to sleep. Alex, instead, ruminates as the moon crosses the sky (he likes the curtains open at night; George has learned to tolerate it). Alex wonders why: (a) his dick doesn't work; (b) he can't seem to recover his lead to George in the championship; and (c) whether (b) might be causing (a). 

What he hates most is that it's not the first time, or even the third, that this has happened. George has stopped nodding at his own dick, and Alex has stopped offering to wank him off.

“Fuck,” he hisses, into the pillow, as George dreams his irritation, frowns in his sleep.

***

“We should go away together,” he says, the next morning.

George looks at him, from the mirror. He has a towel knotted around his waist, and his body is actually physically giving off steam, which is completely unreasonable.

“OK,” he says. “Where?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Just- somewhere. You know. Somewhere sexy. And not stressful. I want to get _laid_ , G. And I dunno what's going on with me, but I'm not putting up with it.”

“We could go get away from it all,” George says. “Camping.”

“I used to do that as a kid,” Alex says, ponderously. “It sucked.”

“That's because when you were a kid you wanted to be outside doing stuff. Not shagging in a tent as it pisses it down. Sharing sleeping bags at night. Toasting marshmallows and fucking against trees.”

“Huh,” Alex says.

“Huh.” George says, emphatically.

***

It's a genius plan, Alex has to admit. He goes into the loft at home, drags out the tent that last saw the light of day in the early 2000s. It had to house a family of 7, so at least it's big enough. Still, he texts George and asks him to bring his back-up tent. Just in case.

The problem, in the end, is that George lets it slip to some of the others that he's off camping. Weirdly enough, the prospect of sharing a smelly tent with their F2 colleagues, in the UK, in July, isn't that appealing to most people. It's just that Lando Norris isn't most people. 

Lando Norris asks to come along.

It's not that Alex doesn't like Lando. Alex and George are good mates. Alex likes Lando a whole lot. He's funny, and weird, and has weird bouts of emotional diarrhoea that Alex finds very charming in a person. The way his mood shifts like the moon behind clouds. It's that, well. The whole point of the trip is that he wants to rekindle whatever is missing between he and George, and he's not sure that he can zip Lando up in a sleeping bag and leave him hanging from a tree like a vampire bat, whilst that goes on.

But George and Lando are good mates. And, as he points out, the latter is sad (Alex wants to fire back: he's always _something_ ) and the former a softie, and, well. That's that, then.

“Alright,” Alex says. “Fine. Is he bringing his own tent?”

“He's buying one.”

“OK. And he knows where we're going?”

“Well.”

“G-”

“Look, he got- really excited. About it all. And there's this spot that he read about, and it does sound pretty cool, and I didn't think we'd booked a site, or anything, so-”

Alex looks at him.

“Alright, look- I know! I know. I am the worst.”

“Did he do the sad eyes?”

“He did the sad eyes.”

“Right. Where is this place, then? It's not in fucking Scotland, is it?”

“It's not far from Guildford, apparently.”

“Alright. It's gotta be better than Milton Keynes.”

“That's the spirit. It's called Caesar's camp, apparently.”

“Suitable, as I've been _betrayed_ ,” Alex says. 

“You are a total diva,” George says. “And I'm going to fuck the living daylights out of you as soon as it gets dark. You know that?”

“You bloody better.”

***

They meet Lando there. Alex's first impressions – already slight of stature – are not enhanced by the car park.

“Jesus,” he says, locking the car. George looks around, eyebrows raised.

“It's authentic,” Lando protests. He's carrying a hiking rucksack that's almost as big as he is. “The last thing you want is loads of caravans. This is proper camping. There won't be loads of kids running around. The last time I went camping, it was like Haven or something. Bloody awful.”

“It reminds me of something,” George says. 

“It reminds me of when you see the news and they're reporting that a body has been found by a dog walker,” Alex says.

“Why is it always a dog walker?” Lando asks. “Have you noticed that it's always a dog walker?”

“Where is the camp site?” Alex asks. 

“Um,” Lando says. “I think up that way.”

They head out. At least it's sunny.

***

“Look, I didn't know there _wasn't_ a camp site, per se, but this is better, isn't it? Because it'll be private. There won't be other tents there.”

“We're going to get murdered,” Alex says. 

“We're still in Berkshire,” George says. “I think we're safe. It's hardly the Black Hills.”

“The what?”

“The- the setting of the Blair Witch Project. Christ, your horror knowledge continues to appall me.”

“What's the Blair Witch Project?”

“Et tu, Lando? It's a disgrace, children's education these days. It's about some teenagers who go camping in the woods to investigate a local supernatural myth and film everything on, like, their own cameras. They then go missing and the film is the footage. It's bloody brilliant.”

Lando has stopped short, and is staring, open-mouthed. “We're going to get _murdered_ ,” he says.

“No, we're not. We're in fucking Berkshire. Nothing exciting ever happens here. Hurry up, we still need to set up the tents. And I'm fucking starving.”

“What's for tea, G?” Alex says.

“Sausages,” George says, proudly. 

“I love sausages,” Lando says, brighter. “OK, I'll risk it.”

***

Alex sits in the mouth of his tent – easy-install, worth every penny – and desolately pokes the sausages on the camping grill. Several tins of baked beans sit eagerly by his feet. He rests his chin in his hand and watches George trying to help Lando set up his tent. If it can be called that; it looks like one of those windbreaker screens that Alex remembers from the British beaches of his childhood. In other words: pure shit.

George goes back to setting up his tent (which, honestly, doesn't look that much better) and Alex distracts himself with an ogle. George looks _good_ camping; all lithe, long legs clad in outdoorsy black jeans and proper boots. Not just, you know, hi-tops. Proper boots. Man-boots. Competent, sexy, useful-in-the-woods boots. And thick cable socks, even. Coupled with the flannel shirt and the gilet with the fur trim and, well. It's very Jack Wills. It's very sexy. Alex feels a tingle in the ol' sweatpants, and smiles. See: his plan is working.

“For fuck's _sake_ ,” Lando exclaims. He's wearing waterproof-clothing, for crying out loud, and a beanie. Which he's just removed, so that he can rub his head. He stomps around in a little circle, swearing profusely. His wellies – _wellies_ – leave a sad trail behind him.

“What've you done?” Alex calls. 

Lando turns to him, massaging his forehead. “Hit myself with the tent pole.”

“You pillock,” Alex says, affectionately. “Think you'll live? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Ugh,” Lando says. “I'm now the weakest member of the herd. I'll be picked off first when the murderer comes.”

“Lando?” George asks. “Where is the tent pole now?”

“It went over my head,” Lando says. “It's probably over there somewhere.”

Forty-five minutes later, the sausages are still raw in the centre, and the tent pole is nowhere to be seen. Lando's tent has deflated entirely on one side, much like its owner, sitting on the camping stool beside Alex. George is trying to fix the tent, but the look on his face isn't promising.

“Sorry you'll have to share with him,” Lando says, morosely. “I know it's a bit shit.”

“No problem,” Alex says, trying not to sound too cheerful.

“I never learned how to put up a tent,” Lando says. “George did, I guess.”

“I never did either,” Alex says. 

“But- that tent is huge. How did you-”

“Easy set-up. You just kinda shake it and it goes whoompf. It's really cheating, but I guess my parents were worried about losing one of us in the time it would've taken to do it properly.”

“Huh,” Lando says. “OK, I feel less shit now.”

“Could've happened to anyone,” Alex says. 

“Those sausages, though, mate,” Lando says. “They look rank.”

“They really do,” George says, striding towards them, wiping his hands. “No good on the tent, mate. You'll have to take mine. Look, the sausages- they're fucked. We need to do a fire. Get them over it. That stove is a bloody joke.”

“Sticks,” Lando says, delightedly. “Can I rub sticks together?”

“Let's leave the stove on for now, eh G?”

Another forty-five minutes, copious amounts of swearing, and two men covered in stick-moss later, a fire is starting to catch. By that point, the sausages are deemed sufficient enough to avoid salmonella, and Alex finishes off the banquet by cooking the beans. They sit, three of them, against a darkening sky, shovelling beans and burned sausages in the mouths.

“Delicious,” George says, through a grimace.

“Oh, you can try tomorrow then,” Alex says, darkly. “Delia fucking Smith.”

“She does cake,” Lando says. 

“She does food as well,” Alex says. “Shut up, you're ruining my attempt at making George feel bad.”

“It wasn't working anyway,” George says. 

“Please tell me someone brought Percy Pigs,” Lando says.

“I did,” Alex says. “Not that anyone appreciates me.”

“I appreciate you,” George says. “Admittedly, more so now I know you've pigs.”

“Fucker.”

Alex catches his eye at the insult, and heat moves between them.

“It looks like it's going to rain,” Lando says, but nobody is listening.

They sit and watch the stars for a while, drinking some beer, and then Alex makes what he hopes are subtle eyebrows at George. George nods, almost imperceptibly. The three of them go for a pee and to brush teeth, and become two quite quickly, as it turns out that Lando cannot pee with anyone around. 

“You have to stay a bit close, though,” Lando says. “The murderer might get me.”

“How close is a bit close, mate?” George says. 

“Is the murderer really going to jump him when he's his dick in his hands?”

“He might be pervy!” Lando says. “I don't know. Can you hear me peeing? If you can hear it, you're too close.”

“We can't hear it.”

“I haven't started yet. I can't because you're too close.”

“For god's sake,” Alex says. They move back a bit.

“Can't hear anything,” George calls.

There's silence. They both stand, restless. Alex rocks back on his heels, feels the mud sludge around his trainers, threatening intrusion. Yuk. 

“Lando?” George calls.

Nothing.

“We'd better just- you know. Just in case.”

They move closer. “Lando,” George calls. “Mate?”

“Fuck off, I'm going now, move away!”

Alex can't help it; he collapses in giggles.

“Stop it!” Lando yells. “Argh! You had one fucking job, Albon! Stop listening to it! You fucking-”

“Nobody is _listening_ -” George stammers, through laughter. “We just thought maybe the murderer had got you.”

“I hate camping,” Lando says, miserably.

“Ah mate. Don't be like that. What's a loud pee between mates?” Alex says.

“It is really loud,” George whispers.

“Shut _up_.”

***

They're settled in their respective tents when the heavens open.

Alex lies, stark fucking naked in nature, horny as God made him, on top of the sleeping bag they've zipped together. On top of the heap of blankets they've both brought. George has his chin in his palm as he regards him. He's equally naked. Bronzed. Muscular. Tousled. Tired out, from a day well spent. From a day of building shelter for his boyfriend; _protecting_ , and-

“Fuck,” Alex hisses. “I'm so hard right now. Look at me.”

George's eyes flick up and down, amused. “You are. It's really hot.”

“You were right, about the meditative music. And the weird lying together. And the rain.”

“I'm very clever,” George says. “And I really, really need a good fuck. So please can we stop doing the clever shit, and fuck?”

“Yes,” Alex breathes, clamouring to get to him. “We really fucking can.”

They roll back, together, thrilled at being already undressed and already hard. No fumbling in clothes. No shifting dicks in hands, encouraging, waiting for the timing to be right. They press eagerly into each other's hardness with hips, relishing in the messy inky grunts of surprise and delight. Kissing is a battle; hands in hair, rolling back and forwards with their bodies as they struggle to decide which of them will take the lead. At first, Alex gets an advantage, lying on top and pinning George's hands back down, grinding his cock into his. It turns on a dime, as George rolls him back over, holding his hands down stretched out by his sides, rubbing himself onto Alex's belly. The noises come thick and rough and there's no skill to it, just instinct – the pushing of their cocks into willing, warm flesh. Finding good spots, eyes blind as kissing takes over. 

It's all really _extremely_ lovely, until there's a knock at the tent door.

“Jesus!” Alex exclaims. He rolls into the corner as George kneels up, eyes glazed over and hair askew. 

“What the-” George murmurs. “It's-”

“It's not the rain,” Alex says. 

“It's not the rain,” Lando says soggily. “I mean, it is- because of the rain, but it's not. I am here. Knocking. Not the rain. Can I please come in?”

“Hang on!”

“I don't care if you're naked,” Lando says. “I've seen it all before.”

“Hah,” Alex mutters, sardonically, gingerly shoving his hard, wet dick back into his underwear. “Have you fuck.”

“Just- give us a minute,” George says. 

“It's very wet,” Lando says. 

“Same in here,” Alex says, darkly. “These pants are fucking ruined.”

“Shush,” George says. “Are you de-? Christ, Alex, put a blanket over you, or something-”

“I can't _help_ it,” Alex hisses.

“Guys?”

“Alright, sorry, hang on-”

George unzips the tent, and Lando scurries inside. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, with feeling. “It's just very wet, and-”

“Only if you leave the _tent_ ,” Alex says.

“No, no. That's the point. George's tent is leaky as fuck. It has a bloody hole in it. On top and on bottom. I tried to use the waterproofs but it's no good. I mean, this tent is massive, and everything, so it should be OK? I'm small? But I'll sleep right over here, so you won't even know-”

“Lando,” George says. “You are soaking wet.”

“I did say,” Lando says. 

Alex gets up, being sure to keep the blanket in place, and shuffles over. Lando is a soaked chihuahua. His thick dark curls are plastered to his head and his clothing is dripping. Alex feels immediately incredibly ashamed.

“Take them off, mate,” he says. “We'll find something to fit you.”

“No no, it's alright, it's- you know, I gatecrashed, and-”

“You'll get pneumonia, you mug,” George says. He interferes, pulling wet t-shirt over his head. He grabs a towel and hands it to Lando, turning away from him to help Alex search for spare clothing. They make room as Lando dries off, shuffles into the clothes, towels his hair. 

“Alright,” Alex says. “Mate, look. Have you got your sleeping bag?”

“Yeah, I salvaged it,” Lando says. “It's fine.”

“Sleep here,” Alex says. Lando gratefully moves into the spot, not missing the fact that it's pretty close, and settles down.

“I really didn't mean to interfere in your...” he says. 

George and Alex glance at each other, in the dark. They're both wondering the same thing: how much did you hear?

***

The next morning is bright and clear, and early sunshine does its magic on the watery ground. They head out early, as Lando reveals that the one thing he did learn from camping trips growing up, was how to fish.

“My mum,” he explains, as they sit on the shore. “We always went when my dad was working, during the summer holidays. She wasn't great at tents but we always ate well.”

Slowly, patiently, he helps each of them in turn to master the art; from setting up, to casting out, to the art of remaining still and waiting for a bite. They catch enough, easily, in the first hour, which makes the ones following lazily wonderful. George lies back on the shoreline, his tight light blue linen trousers rolled at the calf, his white t-shirt falling off his shoulder. His eyes match the water. Lando dips his toes in, focussed on the play of the waves. Alex studies him; his seriousness, his earnest attempts at understanding whatever it is he's given himself over to understanding. The awkward set of his shoulders. The coolness of his eyes, when he doesn't know he's being watched.

The blush in his face when he realises.

George adjusts the straw hat over his face, and eyes Alex through lidded eyes. Alex feels himself recoil, embarrassed at being caught staring at Lando. When George's eyes slide over to Lando, Alex feels his face go red. This isn't what this trip was supposed to be about. It was supposed to be about his reunion with George, for fuck's sake. Reigniting whatever has gone out in him. And last night, in the tent, rolling his hips into George's rolling own – oh, how he'd felt it. And oh, how it had died when they were interrupted. It gives him a shot of peace, that. That his arousal was extinguished when Lando came into the tent. 

Only- not for too long, if he's honest, because he'd noticed Lando's dark curls, and the way his own clothes had swamped him, damp and shivery, and he'd felt _something_ -

Like buses, erections, he thinks. You wait a week for just one, and then two come along at the same time.

***

The fish tastes _so_ good cooked over the open fire. They've done away with the stove and are using a cast iron mount, the old-fashioned way. There's enough for a fish each, and salad thick in olive oil, tomatoes and herbs, and all three feel sated and relaxed as the fire continues to serve them, warming their skin. Each sits against a log, a blanket on his lap. Each is illuminated in the soft flickering light.

They tell ghost stories. George's is an old faithful, which they both dimly remember from sleepovers spent staring at the ceiling with lingering trembles, the man with the hook, the trapped car in the desert. Lando's, too, is dimly familiar. Something about dripping sound, blood, a hand reaching down to the floor from the bed-

But Alex's? Alex's is imbued with Thai mythology, and it is _terrifying_.

George goes over and tackles him, hard, and they fall in crispy leaves, laughing. The moment turns from boyish to erotic quickly, and they forget themselves, their huddling bodies close in the fire's glow, their breath meeting, the sparks from last night's disrupted frottage quick to reignite. It's too late that they realise that Lando – of course, unable to read their language – has joined in the young horseplay, made it wilder, rougher, a newcomer to their foreplay, unconsciously part of triad desire. 

Lando's eyes meets George and Alex's, hard and steady, and Alex realises, in a rush of hard, deep breath – that he _knows_.

***

The plan had been to toast marshmallows, share their insecurities, vulnerabilities, parts of themselves that nobody could ever guess at. The classic campfire stuff.

And yet somehow, that's exactly what they do, only it looks different. George stands, and holds one hand out to Alex, and one hand out to Lando.

Lando looks between them. 

Says, “are you sure?”

“Are _you_ sure?” Alex asks.

“He's sure,” George says.

“I am sure,” Lando says.

George offers his hand at the opening of the tent, and Lando smiles, shrugs. “It's nice here,” he says.

“Fuck,” Alex hisses. 

“I'm dirtier than I look,” Lando says.

“Clearly,” he says. 

“What do you guys want?” Lando asks. “I mean. You have a thing going. Where do you want me?”

George looks at Alex; Alex looks at George. They communicate wordlessly, for a few moments. Then, George smiles to confirm it. Alex laughs, despite himself, covering his eyes with his hands as if he can't believe what's happening.

“We both want you,” George says.

***

They spread the sleeping bags and blankets out on the ground, close enough to the fire so that the goosebumps ease but not so close so as to set fire to anything. Well, more than required. Lando kisses George first, whilst Alex undresses him, watches. It starts out standing, and then George moves his big, long, horny hands over Lando's arse, and guides him into his lap, sitting down. Alex removes Lando's t-shirt. Plants kisses on the back of his shoulders, his neck. Strokes his hands down his sides.

“Feel me,” Lando murmurs. It's not clear who he's talking to, and both George and Alex make the same, single growl at the thought. Their hands meet, brushing backs of fingers against Lando's groin, and he tips his head back, appreciating it. 

“Alex,” George says. “Kneel behind him. On my knees.”

Alex strips off, and then does. George works Lando's jeans off, tosses them onto one of the logs. Lando moves closer to him, deepening the kiss, the new nakedness bringing new intimacy. Alex follows, holding George's hands loosely about Lando's hips. He kisses up Lando's spine, feeling him curve into the touch with arching sighs. 

“Somebody, please, touch me,” he moans. 

George's hand meets Alex there, as if planned by them. Alex takes the shaft and George takes the head, and Lando slowly fucks into their hands as if it's one. George's eyes are closing, slowly opening, and Alex can see that the fucking is grinding his lap, getting him off. He nudges closer, nudging his erection against Lando's arse, feeling Lando gasp into a kiss at the feel of him, hearing the gasp turning into a pleased hum. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, again. “Fuck,” with feeling.

They move as one, not well, not neat, but each chasing the same goal. It works. The touch of one another through an unfamiliar conduit. George's grunts, always chiselled and predictable, tempered by Alex's deep, drawn out low moans. They have a new addition, now, in Lando; a higher keen, split between them, initially a sharp shock and then drawn out loud, needy, reedy. Alex meets George's eyes over Lando's shoulders, and he's fuck-blind, unable even to speak, his hands have to do that for him, in tight clasps of Alex's fingers.

Lando comes first, high and sharp and unexpectedly fast. His eyes are closed and cupped in moonlight. George leans in and rasps a hungry tongue up his throat, capturing orgasm-sound, tipping it into his own mouth and savouring it, comes. It leaves Alex alone in watching, seeing how they look together, a new couple – a new couple, being fucked by _him_ , and in the might of that feeling, he comes all up Lando's back.

***

Lando snores between them. He's wearing – they think – George's t-shirt, and Alex's pants. Alex is stroking George's hair, and George is stroking Alex's belly.

“You,” he says, softly. “are so fucking hot.”

George smiles. “You're hotter,” he says.

“He makes us hotter,” Alex says. 

“He makes us hotter,” George agrees.

“What does it mean?”

“I don't know,” George admits. “Go to sleep. Least we're not being murdered.”

“Mmm,” Lando agrees, in slumber.

***

Nothing about it is proper.

As it turns out, Caesar's camp is not a camping spot. It's a hill fort from the Iron Age, which they come upon by accident on their last evening there, and scare themselves witless. 

As it turns out, the trip didn't so much as reignite Alex and George's relationship, but transform it. The three of them mean to have a conversation about it in the car home, but end up fucking in a ( _very_ ) quiet lay-by, instead. 

As it turns out, a threesome isn't just a gentleman's fantasy, but becomes something much more than that. 

They don't know that part yet.

They will.


End file.
